


To Afford You

by x_x



Category: Generator Rex
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 12:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9384014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_x/pseuds/x_x
Summary: Gatlocke and Rex speak of bad poetry and good wagers before bedtime.





	

 

_how many a time must i write and unwrite each letter,_

_wistful for the simplicity of one stroke, one gullet, and the endurance of one resulting flow._

_action begets consequence just so,_

_but finality without context is counterfeit;_

_thus i brandish word, until the value is par to afford you._

 

"Oh," Gatlocke says. "This is mine."

 

Rex frowns at him from his bed, over the top of a comic book. "Stealing's one thing. Stealing from _me_ is like…instant breakup territory."

 

Gatlocke sports a smile as he turns away from the wall, the vertical space lousy with posters and pictures. The mottled, water-rotted parchment sticks out sore against the crisp, bright colors of professional glossies. At least to Rex. No one else who's been in his room has said anything of it, so he has to wonder if the faded scrap actually doesn't have any particular call.

 

But then, Gatlocke had noticed it.

 

"I want you to have it," Gatlocke announces then, still with that look like he's won some kind of contest. He's got his hands on his hips, entirely unabashed by his complete nudity. (Not like there's anything to be ashamed of, Rex considers as his eyes dip past the other's hips, but he won't say this aloud.) "It's yours now."

 

They had sex over an hour ago-- and while Rex had been content to roll over and snooze, he'd been woken up a mere few minutes later to the lights on and Gatlocke nosing through every inch of his room the way an archeologist might investigate ancient ruins. There was no way he could fall asleep with Gatlocke going through his things like that, but he'd given up trying to get him to quit.

 

Rex figures it's not like he has anything to hide anyway. And if he did, that poem wouldn't be at the top of the list. And the two of them are well enough into something resembling 'going steady' that Gatlocke may as well find out whatever else, right?

 

"Except it was mine to begin with?" Rex reminds him, feeling oddly proprietary over the worn parchment.

 

Gatlocke's face lights up all the more at that. His smile turns toothy. "I agree wholeheartedly. It always was, wasn't it?"

 

Rex tries not to grimace. Showing signs of irritation just eggs the other on when he's being annoying. And from that perspective, he can kind of understand why Six just barely reacts to anything anymore. But, on that note, _whoa_ \-- being able to relate to Six on that level is a scary thought. So before he starts donning sunglasses at all times and thinks a green suit actually looks good, Rex closes his comic and relents to engaging.

 

"Yeah, that's exactly what I've _been_ saying," he says. "What, do you know it?"

 

He's wondered before if the poem were well-known, or if just anonymously written. Honestly, he didn't even have a clue if it could be considered any good or not. Providence didn't exactly keep him around for his forte in poetry.

 

Gatlocke twirls his hand casually, an unnaturally smooth 360 degree rotation of mechanical wrist as he answers: "Like a god knows its subjects, like a beast knows its urinary mark on territory." His gaze falls on Rex, half-lidded and warm. His smile never leaves. "Like one lover knows what just to make the other spill undone."

 

Rex eyes him warily, fingers tensing over the cover of his comic as his heart quakes; they've been together officially for three months and it still makes him feel unsure of himself whenever Gatlocke gets all…awkward like this. _Romantic_ , his brain revises, _It's you being the awkward one_. And instinctively, he has to drop his gaze. He's pretty sure he catches Gatlocke's smile turning into a full-on grin, though.

 

"You saying _you_ wrote it?" Rex jokes, trying to ease off his discomfort.

 

Except Gatlocke tells him, "Yup."

 

"Not buying it."

 

Gatlocke sighs.

 

He approaches the bedside in dramatic pose, one hand over his heart and his other arm extended outwards.

 

" _How many a time must I write and unwrite each letter_?" he asks in a clear, sure swing of tone. " _Wistful for the simplicity of one stroke, one gullet, and the endurance of one resulting flow_!"

 

His gait has a rhythmic sway to it, remaining in accordance to the lilts in his voice, in the poem. Watching the words come to life in physical motion elicits a pull in Rex's chest, a fullness, as if a long-lost piece of himself has clicked back into place.

 

The flux of nostalgia, he realizes, is from the memory of when he'd first found the poem, rolled up and bottled on a beach. Honestly, he'd barely understood it at the time (barely grasps it even now); his only thought was that it seemed like a cool find.

 

 _"Action begets consequence just so_ ," Gatlocke continues, stooping to one knee and reaching out to pull Rex's hand towards him. He kisses it, lips still curved into a smile. His eyes flick up to meet Rex's. " _But finality without context is counterfeit_."

 

"Um," says Rex, not knowing what at all to reply with.

 

Especially when Gatlocke begins pushing towards him, dragging his lips along the skin of Rex's arm, until Rex's pulse quickens at the feel of warm breath upon his neck.

 

 _"Thus I brandish word_ ," Gatlocke murmurs, voice soft now that his mouth is so close to Rex's ear, _"until the value is par to afford you._ "

 

"You just memorized it," Rex accuses weakly. " _Ah_ \--!"

 

His hands twists in Gatlocke's hair when he feels tongue and lip give way to teeth.

 

Rex finds himself being nudged back, Gatlocke's weight pinning him back down against the mattress as the kisses are directed onto his mouth. Mellow, plying kisses, that remind Rex of licking out the bottom of an ice cream bowl after the ice cream's already been finished.

 

Warmth flushes his skin as Rex remembers exactly how Gatlocke finished him not too long ago, and he pushes the latter away before his blush can be detected. Gatlocke has the nerve to smile like he's onto him though, so Rex turns away.

 

"Seriously, though. _You_ wrote it?"

 

"I did."

 

"I didn't know you write."

 

"I don't. Used to. Past-tense. I went through a few hobbies and phases before falling into the wasteland pirate gig."

 

Makes enough sense, in that Rex can see a younger Gatlocke picking up and dropping different, random things with the fluid and fleeting nature of wind. But that brings the next question….

 

Rex isn't an expert on poetry, but he's pretty sure this one is about love. And Gatlocke's definitely had past lovers.

 

Neither of them bring it up, but so much was apparent the first time they screwed around, after which Rex had immediately concluded he'd been jacking off wrong his whole life because he'd never jizzed like _that_ before. And Gatlocke ruined him again and again, until Rex's own hands were hardly enough anymore and he'd go seeking the man out at every opportunity. That kind of experience was learned. From somewhere. From others.

 

"Who'd you write it for?" Rex inquires with a light, nonchalant air, even though jealousy bubbles in the back of his mind.

 

Gatlocke doesn't miss a beat. "You."

 

Rex pinches the other's face hard and pulls at it. "You're so full of shit!"

 

"I wrote it before I met you," Gatlocke concedes, the sound of his voice skewed as Rex stretches his mouth. He doesn't even flinch when his cheek snaps back into place once Rex lets go. "But when I wrote it, I wasn't steadily attached with anyone at the time. So solitary as I was, I romanticized romance, and imagined a love that bordered on hysteria. Vagabonds like me have nothing. And monsters like me have no one. And the way I was in the past, I never coveted so strongly but for something of my own. For some _one_. And I suppose that's why I began taking what belonged to others."

 

"And that's when I found you," Rex can't help but say.

 

"Yes." That sharp-toothed smile again. "Just like you found my poem. I believe it's a sign."

 

Rex's heart skips and he hopes it doesn't show on his face. He scoffs quickly. "Yeah, right. I could dump you tomorrow."

 

Gatlocke squints at him, offended. But he chuckles after a moment. "Shall we make a wager of it, then? On whether or not we stay together."

 

"Kinda doubt there's any security in 'a love that borders on hysteria'."

 

"I'll bet in favor," Gat persists.

 

This time, Rex laughs for real. "Alright, asshole, what are the stakes?"

 

"Poems." The answer comes easy and cocksure. "If I win, you have to write me one. But if you win, I'll write you another to go on your wall."

 

"Okay, and how long is this gonna go for? Obviously if we break up, I win. But at what point do we count it as 'stayed together'?"

 

Gatlocke shrugs. "Marriage, perhaps."

 

Rex feels like he's swallowed his own tongue.

 

While he sputters, Gatlocke has that off-putting grin on his face again, the one that spreads lazily the more he stares at Rex. And the latter usually has to outright tell him to fuck off to get him to stop being a creep.

 

Except this time, Gatlocke forms a blaster of his arm and-- before Rex can even react to that-- the lunatic shoots out the ceiling light.

 

Rex feels a sprinkle of what might've been the lightbulb, as ceiling debris falls over them. Though the darkness, a black mark is very visible in the center of his ceiling where the light used to be.

 

"Bedtime," Gatlocke sings, as if that's reason to any of it.

 

"I'm gonna kill you," Rex says, voice terse.

 

"Oh, darling, I'm going to kill you, _too_ ~"

 

He bites back a groan, reigns in his fists despite how much he wants to punch the idiot next to him. Even the most playful slaps turn into a full-out brawl with Gatlocke, and Rex honestly prefers to get some shut-eye before sunrise.

 

"Hey, Gat," he says, cutting into the obnoxiously upbeat humming Gatlocke starts as they settle back into the small mattress. "What does the poem mean?"

 

"Nothing more than a weak-kneed confession. And yet, it keeps the gall to boast about persistence." Gatlocke snorts. "S'quite dreadful overall, in my opinion, definitely not my best work. But I was young, I suppose." A pause. A bit quietly, and now without the blasé pretense, Gatlocke asks, "What do you make of it?"

 

"I think," and Rex smiles to himself just a little, "'the value is par'."

 

For once, Gatlocke is completely silent, completely stunned. Rex takes advantage of this, and goes the fuck to sleep.

 


End file.
